


What's in a Name?

by thatonewriterdude



Series: Good Omens Drabbles [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, Missing Scene, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 17:46:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19750687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatonewriterdude/pseuds/thatonewriterdude
Summary: After Crowley saves him from discorporation-by-Nazis, Aziraphale inquires about his new name.





	What's in a Name?

“Is it John?” Aziraphale asks, apropos of nothing.  
  
They’re sitting in the middle of the bookshop, sharing a bottle of Macallan and listening to the air raid sirens. The bombs have mostly stopped falling for the night, but every now and again there’s a rattle of the windows that alerts them to the goings on around them. Crowley can’t quite bring himself to care because Aziraphale and his precious books are safe.  
  
“Is… what? What are you on about, Angel?” He sits up straighter in his chair.  
  
Aziraphale knocks back the rest of the scotch and sets the empty tumbler on the table beside him. “The J in your name. Does it stand for John?”  
  
Ah.  
  
Crowley had thought—hoped—that dismissing it as ‘just a J’ would put an end to any questions Aziraphale might have. Really, he should have known better.  
  
“No, it’s not John. Why would anybody want to be called ‘John’ anyway? Dreadfully common name, and if you ask me, the man could have done with a proper meal and dunking himself in the river a time or two.”  
  
“Crowley! You cannot speak ill of the Saviour’s cousin.”  
  
“Oh, right, the _Saviour_. Forgive me, oh Lord,” he drawls, and Aziraphale’s eyes dart around the room as though he expects someone to smite him at any minute. “Anyway, ‘s not John.”  
  
“James, then?”  
  
“Interesting man, that James. Goes and publishes his own Bible full of smiting and damnation and ‘sodomy will send you straight to the pit,’ but you should have heard him in bed.”  
  
The angel in the armchair winces and reaches for the bottle again, and the words burn on Crowley’s tongue. After a careful, measured sip, Aziraphale looks up again. “Joseph?”  
  
“Hell, Angel, are you going to go through all the names of the saints until you find it?”  
  
“Aha! So it is a saint.”  
  
Fuck.  
  
See, the thing is, there aren’t that many saints whose names start with J. Sure, there are a thousand different saints name John, but they’ve already ruled that one out. So really, it’s only a matter of time. A quarter of an hour, tops.  
  
“No… surely not. Justus?” Aziraphale asks, wrinkling his brow.  
  
“Y’know, I actually forgot he was a saint.”  
  
Aziraphale purses his lips, the way he does when he’s tackling a truly interesting riddle, only Crowley doesn’t understand what’s so important about finding out his middle name. But then, it feels almost… sacred in a way. He trusts Aziraphale with his life, of course, but this is different. It's his very soul laid bare for Aziraphale to see, because it might just be a name, but he chose it for a reason.  
  
“Januarius?”  
  
Crowley doesn’t even dignify that one with a response. He just snorts.  
  
“Jerome?”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
“Julius?”  
  
“Too Roman.”  
  
“Juvenal?”  
  
“Well I never claimed I wasn’t childish,” Crowley says peevishly.  
  
Aziraphale gives him a speaking glance before continuing. “Jacob?”  
  
“I could be lying to you. How d’you know it wasn’t one of the ones you already said?”  
  
“Because I trust you, Crowley.”  
  
The words are so simple, so direct, and they cut more than any cat o’nine in Hell ever did. He’s always known Aziraphale is too good for him, even if it hurts when Aziraphale remembers it, too. _Fraternizing._ He shoves the word away.  
  
“Oh, I know!” His angel’s face lights up. How can he look so… normal after what nearly happened tonight? “Jacques.”  
  
Crowley snorts. “I’m afraid I don’t share your affinity for the French.”  
  
“Not the _French_ , per se. Just their food.”  
  
He taps his finger against his lips, and Crowley stares like a cobra transfixed by a snake charmer. It would be so easy to close the distance. Replace that finger with his lips. Want and need pool low in his belly, but he shoves them away.  
  
“No,” Aziraphale breathes, sorrow etching into his features like Michelangelo carving David. “No, you didn’t. You can’t.”  
  
Aziraphale _knows_. Crowley can feel it, and he stops breathing.  
  
“Jude.”  
  
The word drops between them like… well, like a lead balloon.  
  
Crowley shrugs, but the movement is stiff, and his voice is strained when he asks, “What was he the patron saint of again?”  
  
It isn't a denial. He braces himself for what's to come. For the pity and the softness he doesn't think he can stand or deserves. But Aziraphale just sighs and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he catches Crowley's gaze, ocean spray meeting sulphur, and there's no pity at all. Just something like sorrow.  
  
“Saint Jude... was the patron saint of lost causes.”


End file.
